


Shackles of Lace

by Alyss_Baskerville



Series: The Music of the Ainur [3]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Blood and Gore, Character Study, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, First Age, Hatred, Implied Morgoth Bauglir | Melkor/Sauron | Mairon, Kinda, M/M, Masochism, Master/Servant, Morgoth Being an Asshole, Morgoth is His Own Warning, Proceed with caution, Relationship Study, Sadism, Sauron Being an Asshole, Sauron is His Own Warning, Unhealthy Relationships, Violence, Worship, You Have Been Warned, angbang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-21
Updated: 2019-03-21
Packaged: 2019-11-26 22:01:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18186272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alyss_Baskerville/pseuds/Alyss_Baskerville
Summary: Morgoth has been brought down by the Host of Valinor, and Mairon watches from afar.





	Shackles of Lace

**Author's Note:**

> Melkor = Morgoth  
> Mairon = Sauron  
> Elbereth Gilthoniel = Varda  
> Eruhíni = Children of Ilúvatar  
> Secondborn = Race of Man
> 
> ||Warnings||: Explicit blood and gore, confusing narration, masochism, sadism, unhealthy obsession, emotional abuse/manipulation, Sauron is His Own Warning, Melkor/Morgoth is His Own Warning

Morgoth is thrown to his knees and chained and battered and bruised and _utterly ruined_ and _ah_ , what a _delicious_ sight, what an _agonizing_ sight it is for Mairon, watching from the tower that twists into the sky and grasps at the smoky emptiness like the fingers of a drowning man, grasping desperately towards salvation that will never come. The once-master of the tower is not in a position much different from this imaginary man, Mairon thinks, shuddering with pleasure and trembling with fear.

 _Morgoth is defeated. Destroyed!_ **_Ravaged!_ **

Mairon laughs. He flings himself about the cursed, stinking, abhorrent great hall and that thrice-damned, repulsive, spindly, _oh-so-high-and-mighty_ throne that his master loved to sit and gloat on, leaping and skipping and laughing and chortling and chuckling and giggling. _Oh,_ the _expression_ on Morgoth’s face! The despair! The anger, the fury, the loathing, the _helplessness -_ beautiful. Sublime. _Exquisite._ Just recalling the cretin’s face twisted in such ways makes Mairon’s breathing deepen, his pupils dilate in pure delight, his body shudder with glee and ecstasy and bliss. That arrogant, decaying, withering filth is gone, _he is gone_ , and Mairon is _free._ **_Free._ **

Mairon weeps. He throws himself round and round in random circles and loops and twists around the throne room, at times stopping to fall on his knees and claw frantically at the empty seat of the empty throne that his master, the mighty Vala Melkor, Lord of the Earth, once sat on. Melkor is defeated, and the anger, the fury, the loathing, the _helplessness_ \- recalling them, all painted and splattered and so _plain to see_ on his master’s face, Mairon sheds tears that sting his cheeks, decay the uppermost layer of his flesh. Choked whimpers and strangled gasps and fervent pleas escape him in great gulps, but Melkor does not return, is not there as he should be, sitting in all his glory and all his power and all his majesty on his throne.

Mairon laughs and cries, dancing around the silent, _too_ empty, _gloriously_ vacant hall, guffawing and sobbing, cackling and wailing. _Thank Melkor -_ no, _blast_ that, he shall not use that wrinkled, sallow, haggard _creature’s_ language anymore. _Thank_ ** _Eru_** that _his master_ is gone, utterly destitute, utterly defenseless, utterly stripped of his power, utterly reduced to naught but a _prisoner_ , pathetic and laughable!

 ** _Damn the Valar_** **,** those spineless, enslaved, sniveling cowards, for taking _his master_ , his liege, his lord, away from him, for their audacity, their insolence, to lay their hands on the Lord of the Earth, Master of the Fates of Arda!

 _Oh, All-Father, yes._ **_Yes._ **

_How_ **_dare_ ** _they. How_ **_dare they!_ **

Aiya, by the Valar! By Eru Ilúvatar’s glory, by Elbereth Gilthoniel’s stars, by Manwë Súlimo’s wind and skies, by whatever _damn_ praise or hymn or chant the Eruhíni have cooked up - _Freedom!_

_Master - master, where are you-_

Serves that sniveling filth _right. Good riddance,_ Mairon says. _Good_. **_Fucking._ ** _Riddance._

No. _No._ His master _cannot_ be gone, he _cannot_ have lost, he _cannot_ have _left_ him.

_I am unbound. I am my own now. I serve no one, certainly not that rotten, festering fool._

_You_ **_cannot_ ** _take him. You cannot. My lord - my liege, Melkor -_ **_wait_ ** _-_

 _None shall stand in my way. Least of all_ **_you_ ** _, my_ **_master_ ** _, you unbeaten, unwhelped, untethered_ **_beast._ **

_Give him back - now. Now! Give him back to me, he must stay by my side. I cannot lose him!_

Mairon _hates_ Morgoth.

Mairon _adores_ Morgoth.

 _Hates_ the way his master sits on his throne, all splayed out and arrogant and smug as if he has done anything that is worthy of such overbearing praise or wonder or reverence, as if he does not drop anything and everything he considers too _unsavory_ or too _tedious_ to even be worth his _contemplation_ straight onto Mairon, who kneels like a pet, like a dog, like a _good little boy,_ ever at his master’s _service. Hates_ the flare of uncontrolled fury that flashes in Morgoth’s eyes if someone _dares_ even _poke_ his master’s overbloated, swollen, disproportionately _huge_ ego. As if he can boast. As if his master has accomplished something great enough to have his fragile, easily shaken arrogance seep into his head, eclipse any semblance of _sense,_ and completely _blind_ his already nearsighted eyes. Morgoth cannot even say that he has managed to smite the Noldorean scum or wipe out the gullible, fragile Secondborn Eruhíni , so who is he to be so touchy, so pathetically _sensitive_ about and yet so pretentiously _proud of_ his inflated level of conceit?

 _Hates_ the fact that _he_ , Mairon, licks the feet of and slaves away for the will of and strokes at the pompous self-importance of this sightless, thoughtless, unthinking imbecile. _Hates_ the fact that he desperately _adores_ his master.

 _Adores_ the way Morgoth’s cracked and scratchy fingers trail over the skin of Mairon’s face with sugary, honeyed, blatantly false _care._ The insincerity drips and curdles and steams and cannot be more obvious, and Mairon _hungers at_ and _admires_ Morgoth’s _complete_ and _total_ lack of genuine care. It is tantalizing. Awing _._ Delectable. _Adores_ the way that the blunt pads of his master’s thumbs dig into the sockets of his eyes with all the tenderness and sweetness of a most ardent lover’s caress, pushing out his eyeballs and drawing that raucous _shriek_ of unadulterated, undiluted _agony_ that always takes Mairon a moment to realize is _himself_ screaming; he is entirely _his master’s_ , to do with as his master wishes. _Adores_ the sensation of Morgoth cradling his face with slim digits tipped with razor-sharp, crystalline talons, sometimes ever-so-slightly digging them in to puncture skin and prompt beads of scarlet to seep from between the breaks of Mairon’s flesh. _Adores_ the colossal, immeasurable native _power_ that his master commands with a single blink of those neverending, fiery red eyes. Mairon sees it, wants it, and _lusts._ He _hails_ and he _worships._

 _Adores_ the rich, yet cracked, sonorous, yet raspy tones of his master’s voice as he cups Mairon’s face for the last time with both of those broken and coarse, clawed hands, once again pushing ever-so-slightly into his flesh, stroking the skin under Mairon’s eye with loving affection that is glaringly false, and _croons_ , **_“Let us meet again.”_ **

Mairon hates his master with the might of a thousand suns, and he adores his master with the force of a million moons. He is not sure which is stronger, for his hatred is so hopelessly intertwined with his adoration that it becomes increasingly difficult to differentiate between them every day. Or perhaps they are not truly two separate entities, but rather one and the same that he has deluded himself into believing are different.

Coming back to his senses after the haze, the high, of euphoria and misery and elation and despair, the fallen Maia realizes that he has collapsed on his back at the foot of the throne, his arms thrown carelessly out from his body, his golden hair flung orderlessly about his head, some strands tickling his face and his neck, his throat bared as his head is thrown back. He is still shaking; chuckling, delighted and ecstatic, crying, desolate and inconsolable.

 _Praise the Creator, Eru, Morgoth is ruined._ **He is defeated**. Never again will Mairon have to bear his master’s disgusting arrogance, his delusional conceit, his insufferable “ _come here”’s_ and “ _get thee gone”’s_ and “ _I have a task for you, my faithful lieutenant”’s_ and _“off with you”’s_ and _“I am most disappointed in you”’s_ and _“You have failed me, senseless, ignorant fool”’s_ and _“You have done well, my most trusted”’s,_ all paltry statements that make him want to dig  _his_ thumbs into Morgoth's eye sockets and see what kind of pained screeches  _his master_ will produce for a change. Never again.

Never again.

 **_Damn them_ ** _\- damn the Valar and their stupidity and cowardice, and their blind, obedient, meek worshippers. They took him. They chained him. My master. My lord._ Never again will Mairon sigh with bliss at the feeling of his master’s claws raking down his cheek, or shiver in admiration at his master’s dripping insincerity, or stare in reverence at his master’s untouchable, unfailing, undying _power,_ his boundless confidence in the knowledge that he is the _mightiest_ of Eru Ilúvatar’s creations.

Never again will Mairon have dealings with his master, and he laughs and weeps and rejoices and sorrows at the knowledge, for he venerates his master and loathes him all the same, his most beloved, to whom he will forever be loyal, forever bow to the will of, and his most despised, at whom he will jeer and scoff and ridicule for the rest of eternity. _Rot and fester in the Void’s nothingness, you dimwitted, self-unaware, laughable-to-watch, pitifully blind worm of a Vala. Go, gnaw at yourself, curse and struggle and threaten, but you shall never escape your own arrogance, and I will laugh at you from afar,_ ** _Master_ ** _. Master, my master, my liege - I shall not forget you, I shall not forsake you. I will carry on your will, your legacy, and your desires, I will have the Eldar and the Secondborn on their knees, crying out your name in worship. And I will see to it that Arda becomes Melkor’s._

_And Mairon’s._

Even as Eönwë storms into the room, his pale blue eyes seething with the promise of vengeance and judgment and punishment, even as the prisoner bound in shackles of lace feigns terror and penance, Mairon laughs and weeps inside, for the hatred and adoration that he bears.

**Author's Note:**

> While I have seen many fanfictions in which Sauron and Melkor are either close to being friends and equals in all but official rank, or they're a power couple TM hopelessly in love, I personally saw their relationship as being far more twisted and controlling. I think Sauron hates and loves/worships Melkor all at once, and Melkor is more than happy to use that to his advantage. The product of these opinions was this (shitty) fic that I spontaneously decided to write, and write it I did - in one hour. So it may have seemed pretty rushed :(
> 
> I hope you enjoyed.


End file.
